


The Only Thing Money Can't Buy

by Coragyps



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Physical Disability, Rimming, Service Submission, Shaving, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coragyps/pseuds/Coragyps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold Finch is a handicapped, sexually-repressed shut-in. John is the prostitute he hires to take care of that middle part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I actually adore Root and Shaw, but I was in the mood to write just the boys this time, so please enjoy an alternate meeting prostitute!AU.

Harold answers the door in his usual three piece suit. "You are the gentleman from the agency?" he confirms.

The man on his step is handsome, if not quite Harold's usual type; tall, athletic-looking, wearing a fairly respectable sport jacket. He looks like a bit of a knuckle dragger, Harold thinks.

He'll do.

"Yes," says the man. His voice is soft. "My name is John."

"I would have thought that would be _my_ name tonight," says Harold dryly, before he can help himself. "Well, come in. You can call me Mr. Swan." He starts to offer his hand, thinks better of it, and stands awkwardly aside to let the big man through the door. "Right this way."

"Thank you," says the man, who Harold will apparently be calling John tonight. He uses the same calm, quiet tone. He doesn't seem the least bit uncomfortable, following a stranger into his house for sex. His expression is serene, composed.

Harold finds himself taking a second look, reevaluating his earlier assessment. John is tall and powerfully built, but his features are sensitive, his expression thoughtful. He walks with purpose.

Harold shrugs inwardly. He doesn't know why a man with any other marketable skills would sell himself for cash. But then again, how was it possible to end up so pathetic and desperate as to hire a facsimile of affection? He's not exactly in any position to judge.

He limps ahead, leading John through his well-appointed living room. All of the furniture here is worth at least as much as Harold is paying for this encounter.

"You will have to excuse me, John," says Harold stiffly. "I'm not - I'm not exactly an  _experienced_ consumer of ... your agency's services. If there are customary procedures, I may not be aware of them."

"Not to worry, Mr. Swan," says John. The same quiet, steady inflection, almost a whisper. He has kind eyes, Harold notices suddenly. "I'll be sure to let you know."

"Thank you. The bedroom is right through here." Harold feels inexplicably as though he's leading a house tour. Why did he take the long way, up the front staircase? He could have gone quicker through the back.

"There's no need to be nervous, Mr. Swan," says John. "It's my job to make this a pleasant experience, after all."

“I’m not _nervous_ ,” says Harold. “I’m just – I – it has been a while. I’m not a … highly sexed individual.” He flinches at the sound of his own voice, reedy and insecure. Why is he saying this? He’s – what’s the word, he’s seen it on the internet … ‘oversharing.’

“That’s alright,” says John. His voice really is extremely mellow and pleasant.

"It's just, since my accident, I don't get out of the house much, and I'm not usually one for - indulgence, but I've begun to find the urges distracting, from my work, you know ... I'm a software designer." _Oh Lord, he's still doing it!_

"Perfectly understandable," says John. He seems to have excellent conversational skills, for a prostitute.

“It’s hard for me to meet people,” says Harold, waving a self-deprecating hand over his crippled, bespectacled self. “I’m - I fear my social skills are … a little rusty.” If by ‘rusty’ you mean practically nonexistent. “I’m not the kind of person who would succeed at the, ah, 'bar scene.'” Even the words roll awkwardly off his tongue.

John smiles. His teeth are very white. "You don't have to explain yourself to me," he says. They've reached the door of the guest room, and Harold hangs back, awkward, but John pushes the door open boldly and ushers them both inside, into the dimly lit room.

The neatly made bed looms large in Harold's vision.

"Now," says John. "Why don't you tell me exactly how you imagined this encounter going?"

Harold is grateful that they will apparently be discussing the matter clinically. “I was thinking, ah, penetration,” he says, relieved that he managed to get the words out. “Of the anal variety.”

John nods gravely. “Would you prefer to be doing the penetration, or being penetrated?”

The question hangs in the air. Harold can almost see it, floating there between them. There’s no question what he wants – what he originally called the agency to request – but he has long since lost his nerve. Thank goodness he anticipated that, confronted with his own limited body and this impossibly beautiful man, he would choose the path of least resistance.

“I believe I prefer to be the, ah, receiving partner,” he mutters. “If that’s alright with you.”

John's expression doesn't change. “That’s fine,” he says, in the same almost-whisper. “I’m happy to do whatever you would most enjoy.”

Harold doesn’t kid himself – a man as handsome as John can’t possibly enjoy having sex with someone as pale and shriveled as Harold. But he is satisfied with the response.

“Please, don’t hesitate to speak up if there’s anything particular you’re looking for, or if something isn't working with your injuries. It’s my job to please you, after all.” John smiles, a little wryly. “Don’t worry, whatever you’re thinking of, I’ve heard worse.”

Harold doesn’t doubt it. He takes another moment to wonder how such a competent-seeming man has ended up in a field like this. He must be the victim of some rather unfortunate circumstances.

“Ah, I’m not one for anything …elaborate ... ” Harold trails off.

"Whatever you want," says John, matter-of-fact. “Now, would you care to undress? Or maybe I should?”

“I’d like to, er, remain mostly clothed,” says Harold. “Please. Obviously we will – remove whatever is necessary.”

“Of course.”

“Right, then.” Harold limps to the bed and reaches for his waistband, fumbling with the polished buckle of his belt. He lingers over his white boxer-briefs, close to losing his nerve.

“I can look away,” says John, diplomatically. He suits word to action without prompting.

Harold tries to be realistic. Wasted since the accident, his body is thin; not in the attractive way. But John has surely had less attractive partners. He eases his underwear down and arranges himself on his belly, one of the few positions that he can tolerate.

“I took the liberty of preparing myself,” he says. The preparation, he finds, is not sexy. But he doesn’t need any more pain in his life, so it must be done.

“I’ll just check quickly,” says John. Gentle hands part his cheeks – Harold buries his face in the pillowcase – and then muffles a groan as calloused, gentle fingers slide into him without preamble.

John has steady hands.

"Try to relax, Mr. Swan," he says calmly, moving his fingers with care. Harold is grateful for the lack of foreplay; he just wants to get this over with so he can get back to work. It's a medical procedure, no different than the woman who adjusts his back. Just another human indignity.

"Lubrication," he murmurs. It's in the bedside cabinet.

"Don't worry, I came prepared." Wet sounds, then he's being held open again, touched tenderly, the rim of his anus traced with cool fingertips.

"Hmm," says Harold.

John is expert, like he knows that Harold can't tolerate anything but the most knowledgeable touch. He's coaxed open, eased into it. Exquisite pressure loosens his muscles like metal wire being slowly warmed.

"How's that, Mr. Swan?" John easily locates the swollen nub of his prostate.

“Harold,” gasps Harold, into his pillow. “Please – call me Harold.” He doesn’t know why he says it. He planned this scene in advance – of course he did, down to the smallest detail – the fake name, the fake credit card it’s tied to, everything – but it seems important.

“Of course, Harold,” says John quietly. He twists his fingers agilely and Harold hisses, muffling his voice in the 600-thread pillow case his interior decorator recommended.

Nathan is the only one he ever let do this to him - all the rest of his experience is with women, shy and anxious fumbling over the softness of their curves. Now Harold feels tears coming to his eyes, awash in the memory of past kindnesses, and the pleasure of being touched.

"Alright?" asks John.

"Fine," says Harold, trying to squirm, forgetting that he can't anymore. "Your mouth. Will you - please ..."

There's a notable pause, and Harold comes to his senses.

"You don't have to - never mind."

"Shh, we can do that. Just try to stay still so you don’t hurt yourself."

"I can show you my personal health records, of course," Harold babbles. He was screened in advance by the agency, and although those documents had been had actually been careful forgeries, he really has run tests himself, and come back clean.

"It's fine. I trust you."

Soft, wet lips brush against his open hole, bumping against the fingers still tucked away inside him.

Harold shivers at the sensation, trying to breathe deeply through it. "M-more," he demands, greedy now.

"Just relax for me, Harold."

A warm, clever tongue probes against his anus, and Harold sighs and gives over to it. It slips easily into him, shockingly deep, John's hands guiding his hips up just right. A few confident thrusts, and Harold lets go, unable to muffle his damp cries, rutting into his expensive sheets as he comes, shameful and startlingly early.

He doesn't want it to end but also he needs it so badly. For a moment he transcends his weakened frame, escapes the pain that follows him everywhere, as is infused with golden light, the way he only feels when he's deeply absorbed in code.

It's perfect and glorious.

Then he comes back, shaking and sniveling into the pillowcase. His pants and his underwear are still bunched around his thighs. John is shushing him and rubbing his back, broad strokes from his frail shoulder blades all the way down to the base of his spine.

Harold wipes his wet face on his sleeve. "I apologize," he croaks, when he regains enough breath. "That was ... not how I anticipated the evening proceeding."

"Don't be sorry, it's fine. It seems like maybe you needed that. Can I get you anything? Water? A pill?"

Harold rolls over slowly, looking with dismay at his soiled pants and the stains on the bed linens. "No ... no, not yet. I - I suppose I was a little ... pent up."

"I'd say so." John smiles genuinely, his shuttered face suddenly transformed, earnest and handsome and strangely young.

Harold feels himself flush, aware again of the ungainly shape of himself.

"You know, Harold, we've got time left on the clock if you're interested in trying for another round." John surveys Harold's genitalia with a professional eye. "I'd say, give yourself a minute, and you'll have more gas in the tank there."

Harold sits up all the way and looks down at himself in astonishment. John appears to be correct; he stares at his own half-hard penis as if he's never seen it before.

"Good gracious," he says.

"Happens sometimes if things have been backed up for a while," says John. "I could probably get you the rest of the way?"

"Yes," says Harold. "Please."

John helps Harold out of his pants and underwear, then guides him to sit on the edge of the bed. He drops wordlessly to his knees, crawling between Harold's wide spread thighs. Harold swallows audibly.

"You're a very handsome man," he blurts.

"Thank you, Harold." John lets the anticipation build, blinking prettily in the lamp light, before he leans forward to delicately take the tip of Harold's penis in his mouth. He hums, sucking thoughtfully at the fluid dribbling at the tip, before nuzzling slowly and deliberately down into Harold's lap.

“Oh,” says Harold. He’s as entranced by the smooth motion of John’s throat as by the sensation of his own penis being so easily swallowed. He's thankful he paid a premium to forgo the need of a condom for this.

He lifts a cautious hand and sets it in John’s hair, not to hold him down, just to touch. John hums, lifting his eyes, curious. Harold doesn’t know why he did it either, but it feels right to gently stroke through the sandy, grey-flocked hair. “That feels very good,” he tells John. “Thank you.”

John blinks. The corners of his eyes crinkle, like maybe he would smile if his mouth wasn’t full. He starts bobbing slowly up and down, and he brings his free hand up to cradle Harold’s filling testicles and the base of his penis.

The previous orgasm has left him acutely sensitive but restored blessed control, and Harold can enjoy himself, enjoy the sight of John’s pretty stretched lips. He gets the sense that John is trying to make it last too, or else he would use his tongue on the crown, draw him into orgasm. But he’s more interested in getting down to the root, so he can bury his face in Harold’s short, graying pubic hair, breathing deeply.

Harold still has his hand on the back of John’s head, resting there gently. "You're very good at this," he says.

John lets him slide slowly out from between his lips and licks down the shaft. “You can finish in my mouth, if you like,” he says. “Or we could finish what we started before." He rest his lips on a lightly furred testicle. "Or maybe there's something else you want? This is your show, Harold.”

Harold watches him open wide to take the wrinkled sack carefully into his mouth.

"I want to penetrate you," says Harold in a rush.

"Mmmm." John sucks lightly, then withdraws. "I'd like that too."

"But since my accident, I’m not really ... my injuries, I might not be - able to."

“We can do it,” says John confidently. “I can find a position that will work for you. Just leave everything to me." He regains his feet with agility that makes Harold envious, and starts to open his pants.

“I want to see you,” says Harold. “All of you.”

John obediently switches to his shirt buttons, unhurriedly revealing a tanned, muscular chest that’s crisscrossed with scars. Harold knows instinctively not to ask about them; after all, he has scars of his own.

John shrugs out of his jacket, folding it neatly over a convenient chair, then out of his shirt.

“Now your pants,” says Harold, enjoying the pink flush that spreads over the man’s neck, his nipples hardening.

John is hard. Harold is flattered, although he’s sure there are tricks of the trade to ensure it. His penis is large and uncut, the wet head swollen. 

When he's completely naked, John spreads his arms and turns a slow circle, letting Harold’s hungry eyes examine every inch of him – his broad, powerful back, lean thighs, and his proud, high buttocks. Harold wants to touch, but he refrains.

"Alright," says John. "Why don't you sit back, please? And would you prefer facing, or - "

"Facing," says Harold at once. He watches John reach back and prepare himself. He has changed his mind about preparation – it can be quite attractive, when done by the right person.

John helps him into a condom - the risk to the client dictates its necessity, for this act - before finally coming forward to straddle Harold’s waist.

"I’m going to keep my weight on your thighs, away from your hips," says John. "Don’t try to thrust up if it hurts. Just let me do all the work." He reaches back to coat Harold's sheathed penis in additional lubricant, then guides it to his opening.

Harold doesn't know where to put his hands. He watches John's face as he sinks down slowly, the slight tightness around his eyes that fades into loose, hazy pleasure.

“Feels good,” John rasps. Harold is sure he has taken much larger but he likes to think the enjoyment is genuine. He tries to move his hips, stilted and stiff. John matches the rhythm at once, infinitely smoother.

“You don't have to do anything, if you don't want," says John. “Let me take care of everything.”

There’s something about that phrase that arouses him, Harold thinks. He suspects that John is the kind of man who likes to take care of others. 

John knows how to roll his hips in just the right way, holding most of his weight off of Harold with his own strong thighs. He must have immense control, Harold thinks. He finds himself hardening impossibly, his erection safe and warm in John's snug channel.

"I'm getting close," says Harold, biting his lip.

John moans softly and speeds up, pushing down harder to bottom out completely, taking Harold all the way in on every stroke.

Harold lifts his hand to stroke John's twitching washboard abs, up over his smooth pectorals, the straining tendons and hammering pulse of his throat. Cradles his square, handsome jaw.

He runs a finger over John’s wet lips, and John opens immediately, letting Harold’s finger slide into his mouth, sucking gently.

"Cross your hands behind your back," says Harold, daring now.

John shifts to achieve the position, all his grace made awkward. He’s still trying valiantly to keep his weight off of Harold’s hips, but Harold is feeling no pain.

"Good," he says. "Very good. You like that, don’t you. No, don’t answer. I'm going to come inside you now, and I want you to take every single drop."

John stills and squeezes, and Harold ruts up - once, twice, into the obscene clench of John's body, and then _explodes_ , filling the condom and closing his eyes against the intensity of the pleasure. 

This time it goes on and on, soft waves of gratification that keep him rocking up into John, indifferent to the growing ache in his back or the smell of sweat emanating from his now sadly wrinkled attire. It might be only a few minutes, but it feels like hours as all the frustrations of the last year drain out of him, leaving him with simple animal contentment.

"Harold," John whispers, strained, muffled by the finger still in his mouth, "Please, Harold, can I come? Harold, please?"

Harold opens his eyes, taking in John's wide eyed expression, his agitation.

"Yes, John," says Harold. "You've been very good." He takes John's thick, weeping cock in his other hand and squeezes. "I want you to come for me now."

John whines, letting the other man see his pleasure as he spasms between them, soaking both of their bellies.

"Good," Harold soothes, "Very good, so good for me, John."

John collapses against his shoulder in relief when he's done, and Harold strokes his sweaty hair and holds him close, his mind buzzing with plans.

He already knows he's got to keep him. However much John costs, Harold can afford him.

Harold's software is almost ready, and his dealings with the real world are getting increasingly charged. He needs someone who knows how to take orders, someone who takes pride in his work. Someone to translate his ideas into action. An interface.

John makes a sleepy sound and Harold pulls him in closer, easily bearing the heavy bulk of him with the endorphins still coursing through his bloodstream. Feeling unspeakably tender, he bends to kiss the grey temple resting on his rumpled Oxford shirt.

"It's alright, now," says Harold.  "Ssh, it's alright. I've got you, John. I've got you, now."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the previous chapter as a one shot with no intention of continuing the story - in my imagination, after the AU meeting our couple basically entered into canon. But for some reason as I was walking home yesterday I got a hankering to add one more scene of subby kept!John taking care of prissy Harold, so here we are ... sorry this doesn't really go anywhere - and there's no sex! - but I'm trying to get better about *actually posting things* rather than obsessively editing them. Also, I switched to past tense here. So, uh, enjoy!

“I may have overdone it, Mr. Reese,” called Harold, wincing as he tried to straighten out. He’d been writing new code and, as often happened, he’d lost track of time.

“I told you to stop hours ago,” scolded John softly, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

“I don’t pay you to nag me. I pay for your assistance. Please go run me a hot bath. You may use the scented oils this time.”

“We’ll get you to the bed first,” John countered, not at all ashamed to be disobeying an order. He bent near where Harold was sitting, cramped in his chair, waiting for him to gingerly lift his arms, groaning, to wrap them feebly around John’s neck.

“Ready?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

John slid his free arm under Harold’s knees, lifting him carefully. Although slight in stature, Harold knew he wasn’t really as light as John made him seem; John just kept himself in meticulous shape, for this and other reasons.

Harold was no longer embarrassed to be carried by his bodyguard/business partner/personal aide/"intimate provider." John always made it feel like a natural and normal part of life, whether he was massaging Harold’s spasming back, preparing the mild foods he could eat, or gently sucking his cock to distract him from the pain.

“Here we are,” said John calmly, entering Harold’s well appointed bedroom and immediately making his way to the bed. With the ease of long experience, he set Harold down among the pillows, each one of his limbs supported and arranged to minimize stress on his spine.

“I think perhaps the eucalyptus oil tonight,” Harold decided.

John bent to touch the back of his hand to Harold’s forehead, passing the gesture off as testing his temperature but also taking the opportunity to tenderly brush back his hair. “Yes Harold.”

He picked up a light blanket from the bottom of the bed, shook it out, and spread it over the smaller man, knowing how cold could make sore muscles even more tense. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, in his usual almost-whisper.

Harold, who didn’t doubt it, nodded shortly, already reaching for his phone. John took it out of his hands and moved it further away. “Just try and relax a moment. Maybe take some deep breaths.”

“Sometimes, Mr. Reese, I think you forget who is paying who around here.”

John bent to plant a kiss on Harold’s forehead, tugging the blanket up with his free hand. “Never for a minute, Harold. Now, rest.”

Harold relented, listening to the soothing sounds of John moving around the attached bathroom. The musical stream of water over porcelain was familiar and reassuring.

A cramp moved up Harold’s wasted legs, and he hissed slowly between his teeth.

“Alright, Harold?” called John, who could not possibly have heard the exhalation over the rushing water.

“Yes, fine.” His shoulders seized next, and Harold couldn’t keep back a soft moan.

John must have returned near-silently to his side, because he was there in an instant, having already opened Harold’s emergency painkillers.

“No, I don’t need those,” said Harold, turning his face away from John’s extended hand.

Funny how John could communicate his dissatisfaction without a word, or any change in facial expression; the air around him simply radiated disapproval.

“Your bath is ready for you,” he said. “May I carry you there?”

“A moment, if you please.”

Harold took a long breath, exhaling slowly.

“Perhaps there is something else I could offer for your relief?” John’s voice changed to the husky, intimate tone that served as flirtation. Harold did enjoy that voice. However …

“I’m ready for that bath now,” he said, lifting his arms again. John switched course without a murmur, easing Harold up into his arms.

“Did you set out my blue towels?”

“Of course.”

“And my robe?”

“Yes, Harold.”

They had reached the bathroom. Harold indicated the closed lid of the toilet with an imperious hand. John knelt down to get him seated, keeping him in place with a hand on his shoulder as he rose.

“May I assist with your shirts, Harold?”

Harold knew John enjoyed being allowed to undress him, and he deserved a treat – they had been working so hard lately. “I think so, yes.”

John began working on the buttons of Harold’s tweed vest, which he then guided off of Harold’s shoulders. His whole attention was fixed on the task, as steady now as he had been the other day kneecapping a child molester. He turned to the delicate buttons of Harold’s white Oxford next.

“Is that … mint that I’m smelling, Mr. Reese?”

“I added it to the eucalyptus. It's beneficial for muscle pain.”

Harold had not ordered mint oil in his bath. Mr. Reese was indeed taking liberties.

“I would like to help you stand, Harold.”

“I am capable of managing that myself, I think,” said Harold, with asperity. “In fact I believe I can handle the rest of this endeavor.”

John’s lips thinned. “Of course,” he said, standing up. But he didn’t leave the room, hovering in the doorway.

“I meant, you may go.”

“Yes, I know you did." Still he made no move to leave. Harold was reminded of the way a shepherd watched over his sheep; ceaseless, and full of concern.

Harold sighed. “You may help me stand, and remove my trousers,” he said at last.

“Thank you, Harold.” John sprang into action, sliding an arm under his armpits, gently lifting Harold onto his feet, and waiting while he got his hands on John’s broad shoulders for balance. Then he undressed Harold as tenderly as a mother with a young child, guiding him to step out of his pants and his underclothes.

“You work too hard, Harold,” he rumbled, returning to take the smaller man around the waist, keeping his weight off his feet.

“Lift me into the water,” said Harold. He didn’t want to watch his knees give out.

John complied without a word. “We should order one those walk in tubs,” he commented, easily leaning over with Harold in his arms, and slowly lowering him down into the bath. The water was still hot enough to make Harold gasp.

“Why would I need one of those,” asked Harold, closing his eyes.

John didn’t answer, occupied with getting Harold leaned back against the tile, sliding a rolled up towel under his neck, and carefully guiding his legs to extend in the tub. “How’s the temperature?”

Harold’s eyelids felt heavy. “Perfect.”

“And how’s the pain?”

“Mm. No pain.”

“That’s good, Harold. If you’re feeling worse tonight, will you take a pill?”

“We’ll see.”

John sighed, his breath stirring Harold’s hair. "May I wash your hair?"

"I don't think that's necessary, Mr. Reese. This bath is about reducing pain, not cleanliness.” But, aware of John’s unstated disappointment, he added belatedly, “Perhaps you could assist me by providing a shave. I find that my appearance has somewhat – devolved lately, under the additional hours we’ve been working.”

John visibly brightened. “Of course Harold,” he said. “Uh, not that your appearance – of course – you – you look fine.”

It was rare to discompose John Reese, which meant that Harold particularly enjoyed doing it. He kept his eyes closed while John soaked a wash cloth under hot water from the sink, which he then laid against Harold’s no doubt sunken, sallow cheeks.

“There now, don’t move around too much,” directed John. “Just let that sink in.”

“Hm, that feels – very relaxing.” The addition of the mint was an especially nice touch.

“Good. That’s good, Harold.”

“You have been of great assistance tonight, John.” Harold snuck a glimpse through lowered eyelashes to watch that comment sink in.

John was pink-cheeked and heavy-lidded. Harold closed his eyes again with a smile. He knew perfectly well how such words affected his partner.

After the recommended twenty minute soak – _no longer, Harold, or it could contribute to inflammation_ – John fished him back out of the tub. Moving much less stiffly now, wrapped in his flannel bathrobe, Harold sat on the seat of the toilet again and let John draw the old fashioned straight razor over his stubble. By now he knew just how deadly the silent, powerful man could be, with or without a blade – but it never crossed his mind to be concerned as the sharp edge moved across his neck.

John was utterly content at his labors, almost humming under his breath, sweetly asking permission every time to guide Harold’s face this way and that.

“This is like your birthday and Christmas all rolled into one,” noted Harold, lifting his chin so that John could get the tricky part above his lip. “Isn’t it.”

“Yes, Harold.” John was serene. As he cleared the last stripe of smooth flesh, he reached for the washcloth to blot away the remaining foam. His hands were perfectly steady. “Would you like me to set out your heating pad, for later?”

“There won’t be a need for that, Mr. Reese. But when you are finished here, I believe I could do with that additional relief that you mentioned earlier.”

“You mean the pills? Or – ”

“That other thing.”

John’s smug expression was not his most attractive. “Of course, Harold. Whatever you like.” He brought over a dry towel so that Harold could wipe his face.

"I would like to have you on your belly, with your wrists tied behind your back. Maybe blindfolded. Would you enjoy that, do you think?"

"Of course I would. But don't you think that might be a little ambitious for this evening, Harold?"

Harold, of course, had known John would steer him away from any physical activity. "And what would be your preference, if you could do anything?" he inquired without much interest.

John meditated, helping Harold stand. "I would like to lick your hole until you come on my tongue," he said at last, rather dreamily. 

Harold considered. “I think I'll have just your hands, tonight. You have very strong hands.”

“Would you also like a massage? I could give you one now. Or after.”

“You’ll do just as I direct, and no more.”

“Yes, Harold.”

Harold allowed himself to be guided back into the bedroom. “The work that we’re doing … it’s extremely important, John.”

John passed a hand over his damaged spine. “ _You’re_ extremely important, Harold. And how do you expect to finish the work if you won’t take care of yourself?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Harold primly. “Why on earth would I want to take care of myself? I have you for that." 

 


End file.
